


Miso Flavor Boiled Dumplings with Worcester Sauce

by garyindistress



Category: Keizoku 2: SPEC | SPEC ~ First Blood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:26:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garyindistress/pseuds/garyindistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only after it's all over does Sebumi say, "Toma."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miso Flavor Boiled Dumplings with Worcester Sauce

Only after it’s all over does Sebumi say,

“Toma.”

In the adjacent bed she shifts, groans, snorts. Nonomura had them put in the same room, because. An age ago he would’ve complained, requested for solitude. But an age ago he wouldn’t have been here. It’s a week since his vision clouded over, and now he sees faces only in dreams. Hers is the sharpest. The garlic smell, strongest.

The lights have gone off; it’s past ten.

“I’m so hungry.”

His entire body aches. He can only imagine how it is for her.

“Toma.”

The rustle of blankets is her turning on her side. Toward him, he decides, when she speaks.

“Isn’t it strange to think that we could’ve not met?”

Yes.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she says. “Satoshi was interested in scenarios. I wonder what would have happened in an alternate scenario, in which you and I never meet and he doesn’t—“

“I thought you were sleeping,” Sebumi cuts in.

“I was, but you woke me up.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t want to.”

When they’re both quiet, he can hear her breathing.

“‘Stop looking down on life,’” he says. “That’s what you said on the phone. Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

“It’s not the same thing,” she says.

“You’re rewinding time,” he says angrily. “That bastard didn’t control everything. He couldn’t. Or else I wouldn’t have—remembered you.”

Moments pass before she responds.

“I’m not trying to rewind time.”

Ninomae.

He’s a jackass.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he starts, “But being here right now, with you, is not the worst thing in the world.”

“Stop,” she says. “I’m going to puke.”

But she sounds happy.

 

The first face that comes into focus is Nonomura’s. He smells like lip gloss and popsicles. Sebumi sneezes a string of snot onto the old man’s forehead and immediately struggles to sit up and apologize.

“It’s no matter,” Nonomura assures him good-naturedly, reaching for his pocket handkerchief. “What’s important is that you can see again. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two. One straight, one curled.”

“Correct!”

“Anal.” Toma pops up from the side of the bed. Sebumi almost falls off.

“The fuck are you doing down there,” he growls.

“Looking for a banana,” she shrugs, raising it over her head. “But it’s browning.”

“That’s my fruit basket.”

“Mirei-chan brought it for both of us!”

“You already ate everything!”

“I saved you an orange,” Toma grins.

“Oh dear,” says Nonomura. “I’m late for my date.”

He leaves, but not before winking at Sebumi.

“Give me the orange,” he snaps, when they’re alone. She nudges it toward his lap with her elbow, and that’s when he sees that both her arms have been bandaged. There are large bruises on her neck, spotting her throat. The white gauze around her forehead pulls her bangs back, so that her eyes are unobstructed—clear and honest, even if the rest of her is frivolous.

He peels it in silence. She watches, waiting. When the last of the peel slides off, she opens her mouth. He throws a piece, but it bounces off her nose.

“Sebumi-san, you meanie,” she sniffs.

“Fine,” he says, and peels off another piece. She leans in, and he steadies her chin with the fingers on his left hand while tucking the wedge of orange into her mouth with his right hand. She closes, chews, smiles the biggest smile.

“Yuuum.”

“Do you have to talk like that?”

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

“It gives me the chills.”

“That’s why I do it,” she says, yawning.

A minute later she’s asleep, her hair curling on his lap. Without thinking he leans over and kisses the skin just below her ear. For once she doesn’t smell like anything. Probably because they both smell the same. Like sick people in hospitals.

She jerks a little. “Ticklish,” she mumbles.

“Toma,” he whispers into her ear. “I’m glad I can see again.”


End file.
